Page 13 of Drive Me Wilde

"Sorry, just brought your duffle." My gaze sweeps her direction again. The bruises look even worse.

She sniffles. "I can't believe this happened."

I reach her in two steps and put my arms around her, gently. It takes all my willpower not to pull her hard against me. She sobs against my shoulder a few minutes, then lifts her head. I drop my arms, and she steps back.

"Okay, meltdown over. It's the first time I got a good look at the bruises, and it shocked me. I'm fine. Thanks for bringing my bag." She motions me out.

The only spare bedroom in the house has become a storeroom, and it's filled with junk. I decide to sleep on the couch, so Indi can have my room. I walk that direction to clean up the mess I've left behind. I stop before I go into the room to clean up. I can hear Indi's soft moans over the shower water.

"I need a fucking beer." I go back to the kitchen and pull one from the fridge.

The rumpled blanket is draped over the arm of the couch. I drink the beer and stare at the couch as if I've just hallucinated the last twenty minutes. Nope, it wasn't a hallucination. She's back. Indiana Nash is back, and after spending years putting the pieces of my heart back together, years of dating too many women and never finding the right one because none of them were Indi, years of convincing myself she was out of my life forever, she strolls back, or, more accurately, collapses back into my life, and she's still completely unaware of the impact she has on me. And that impact is as strong as ever.

six

. . .

Indi

The smell of something truly delicious wakes me from a deep sleep. I open my eyes and look around the dimly lit room. Nothing looks familiar. A pair of men's jeans are hanging over a chair and a sock sits single and lonely on the floor. I gasp and turn over quickly. The other side of the bed is empty and untouched … thank goodness. My arm presses instinctively against my side, and all of it comes back to me, the whole big fucking ordeal.

I push to sitting. I'm in my favorite sleeping T-shirt. It takes me a second to relive last night. Strangely enough, it started and ended in Jameson Wilde's arms. He caught me as I collapsed from pain and exhaustion at his front door. After the shower, I was too tired to have my ribs wrapped. I could barely keep my eyes open, so Jameson carried me into the bedroom. Tiny flashes of him tucking me in, gently, and brushing a wet strand of hair off my face come back to me. None of his behavior matches up with the Jameson Wilde I grew up with.

"Pancakes," I say on an excited breath as the aroma floating through the house matches up with the food memory. There's a bottle of aspirin and glass of water sitting on the nightstand. I take two aspirin. My headache has lessened, but my ribs stillache. I pull on a bra and shorts, grab my toothbrush and scurry down the hallway to the bathroom. I look like hell. I comb my fingers through my hair. The warm shower felt so good, I nearly fell asleep leaning against the tile wall and letting the water run over me. Now that I'm clean and slightly caught up on sleep, my head is clearer, and my stomach is empty. I've never experienced such extreme hunger as I have in the last few days.

I check my reflection once more and crinkle my nose at how bad I look, just like someone who spent the last few days sitting on a bus. Taking me in unconditionally and then making pancakes doesn't wipe away all the shit Jameson pulled in high school, but it sure as heck doesn't hurt. Especially the pancake part.

I reach the kitchen and stop short when I discover Jameson is not the pancake chef. A young girl, preteen or early teen at the most, with short, dark brown hair, jean cutoffs and a glittery silver ankle bracelet is standing over the stove moving and shaking to the music in her earbuds. She's humming loudly to a song I don't recognize as she spins around on bare feet. She's wearing eyeliner and mascara around big blue eyes. "Oh, hello, pancakes are almost done." She points to her face with the end of her spatula. "How does the eyeliner look? I'm going for Taylor Swift, but I'm worried it's more Cleopatra."

I stop and tilt my head to the side. "I'd say just a little thinner of a line, and you'll be right at Swift level."

She looks pleased with the suggestion and turns back to the stove. "Do you like thick or thin pancakes? I like them thin for a high syrup to pancake ratio."

"Thin works for me."

She glances over her shoulder. Something about her smile is familiar. "I'm Rio, by the way."

"Hi Rio. I'm Indi."

She nods and expertly flips a pancake. "My mom showed me how to cook pancakes when I was seven. Now, I'm a pro."

"I can see that."

She stops and turns back to me. "I guess we have to get sleepyhead up. He'll be grumpy because he fell asleep on the couch. Oh Jameson, Sir James, pancakes are ready!" she calls into the living room.

I look through to the living room couch. There are three empty beer bottles on the coffee table. Jameson is shirtless and on his stomach. His arm hangs to the ground. I didn't imagine the size of his arms. He was big in high school, but now he's positively massive.

Rio huffs in aggravation. "And he tellsmeI sleep like a rock."

I'm trying to piece together the pieces of the puzzle. Did Finnegan Wilde have another child, a daughter this time round? The man did seem to have a knack for getting women pregnant, but last I heard, Nate was still the baby of the family.

Rio puts three pancakes on a plate and hands it to me with a sweet smile. "Are you his girlfriend?"

"Me?" I ask. "No, just an old acquaintance."

"I kind of wish you were his girlfriend. Don't tell him I told you this, but I think he's lonely." Without taking a breath she turns her head to yell toward the living room. "Dad! Breakfast."

I turn around expecting to have the mystery solved, but it's only Jameson. He sits up on the couch, and I pause to catch my breath. He's certainly filled out.

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